


Chapel and Cathedral

by nlans



Series: Cecily Trevelyan [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecily and Cullen want a quiet wedding. Various people have other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Dear Mia,_

_I am pleased to report that I followed your advice and did not over-think my proposal. Cecily has agreed to be my wife._

_We plan to be married here in Skyhold over Satinalia—I hope that will suit our family, since the winter is a quieter season for the farm. I know travel will be more difficult in the snow but the Inquisition has built good roads through the mountains. Please assure Mother and Father that this will be a small, modest celebration—just our families and the Inquisition’s people._

_I am looking forward to seeing all of you again._

_Love, Cullen_

 

* * *

 

**Skyhold, three months before Satinalia**

The moment Cecily saw Cullen’s face, she knew something was amiss.

Her Commander was sitting at the edge of their bed, a letter in one hand. His mouth was pressed into a thin line and his shoulders were slumped. Cecily’s heart thudded in her chest. Bad news from South Reach? Or from the Inquisition’s forces?

“Cullen, what is it?”

Cullen met her eyes and grimaced. “It’s a letter from Leliana.” He stood and offered her the piece of parchment.

“She is well,” he added hastily, correctly interpreting Cecily’s sharp intake of breath. “But she has asked us to—to reconsider our plans. For the wedding.”

Cecily’s eyebrows drew together. “Reconsider getting married?” she asked, utterly baffled.

Cullen shook his head. “No, no, of course not. Perhaps—perhaps you should just read the note.”

Cecily took the letter in her hands and began scanning its lines.

> _Dear Cecily and Cullen,_
> 
> _I cannot tell you how happy I am for you both! You have always been splendid together and nothing would bring me greater happiness than being the Sister who pronounces you husband and wife._
> 
> _But I must ask something of you—something I know you will not like, and to which you may say no without fear. Would you consider holding your wedding in the Grand Cathedral in Val Royeaux on Wintersend, and inviting the Inquisition’s allies to attend?_
> 
> _I have two reasons for making what must seem a strange request. First, although I thought my edict made it clear, there are many who still believe that mages cannot marry in the Chantry. Having the Divine preside over the grand, public wedding of a famous mage would put that misconception to rest once and for all._
> 
> _Second, these past few years have been terribly trying for the people of Thedas. Much was lost in the mage-Templar war, and much remains to be rebuilt. Celebrating the marriage of two of the Inquisition’s heroes—one a former Circle mage, the other a former Templar—would bring people joy and show that we need not be bound by old grudges._
> 
> _I know that a grand celebration (in Orlais, no less) is not what either of you would have wished for your wedding day. I would not ask if I did not believe this was an event that would do great good for the people of Thedas._
> 
> _Please be assured that whatever your answer, you are both my friends and my first wish is for you to be happy._
> 
> _Love, Leliana_

Cecily realized that she had pressed her fingers to her mouth and that her eyes were open so wide they almost hurt. She blinked several times, pinched the bridge of her nose, and looked over at Cullen.

The Commander’s face was slightly pale and his expression was resigned. “We have to do this, don’t we?” he sighed, rubbing a hand behind his neck.

“We don’t _have_ to,” Cecily said halfheartedly. “We could say no. Leliana will understand.” She felt her face fall. “Maker’s breath, Cullen. I don’t want to put you through something like that.”

“I can endure a few days in Val Royeaux. I’m not _that_ bad at social events,” Cullen said a bit defensively. “It’s just—the bloody Grand Cathedral in front of half of Thedas is a far cry from the Skyhold chapel. And being the symbol of Thedas’s future is rather a lot of pressure.” He met Cecily’s eyes; his mouth quirked wryly when he realized the irony. “Though I suppose you of all people would know that.”

“It would be nice not to be a symbol for just one day,” Cecily admitted, her voice quiet and wistful. “But—oh! If it really would help other mages who want to marry, how can I say no?”

“And if celebrating a marriage between a mage and a Templar might help people see Thedas’s future, I can’t say no either.” Cullen let out a soft but heartfelt groan. “So. We’re off to the Grand Cathedral?”

“My mother will be pleased,” Cecily offered wanly.

“Well, they do say it’s a good idea to start married life with a happy mother-in-law.” Cullen’s tone was light, but Cecily could hear a faint hint of stress in the words. He took her hand and kissed her cheek. “We’ll survive. It’s not as if we haven’t faced worse.”

Cecily leaned into the kiss with a smile. “Too true.”

Cullen left their room a minute later, apologizing about a stack of reports he had waiting for him. Cecily watched him go with a heavy pit of worry knotting her stomach. _I’m sorry, my love,_ she thought, folding the letter with a silent sigh. _If I were just Cecily, I would happily marry you in a barn with no one in attendance at all. But the Inquisitor isn’t quite so free to make that choice._

 

* * *

 

_Dearest Cecy,_

_I am delighted that Divine Victoria has persuaded you to hold a larger wedding! I know you like the Inquisition to maintain an aura of modesty, but sweetheart, you are a hero and you should be celebrated like one._

_I have already been in touch with Madame de Fer in Val Royeaux. Evie and I will leave immediately to help her oversee the preparations. Don’t worry about a thing, dearest—we have it well in hand._

_All my love, Mother_


	2. The Gown

**Skyhold, two months before Satinalia**

The letters from Val Royeaux would not stop coming.

As Cecily’s mother had promised, she and Vivienne had everything in hand. That was rather the problem. Sophia Trevelyan had spent most of Cecily’s childhood dreaming of the day her beloved oldest daughter would marry a man worthy of her. She’d had to give up that dream when Cecily went to the Circle—but now that Cecy was the Inquisitor and was going to be married in front of Thedas’s elite, nothing would stop Lady Trevelyan from throwing the grandest and most beautiful wedding Val Royeaux could provide. And Vivienne was bound and determined to make this wedding a shining signal of mages’ power and respectability, or as she put it, “remind people that we’re not _all_ ragged apostates who run around starting rebellions.”

 _This isn’t about us,_ Cecily reminded herself as she looked over yet another set of sketches—these ones were of the wedding clothes Vivienne was having made. Cecily’s dress would be ice blue and white; it had a full Orlesian skirt, a snug Marcher-style bodice that seemed to assume rather more bosom than Cecily actually possessed, and a terrifying number of crystals embroidered throughout. Cecily wondered if she’d be able to stand up in the thing. She trusted Vivienne’s taste, but Maker, she’d never even _imagined_ wearing such a lavish gown.

At least the sketch for Cullen wasn’t so bad. It depicted a nicely tailored coat and trousers that looked both very Ferelden and vaguely military; the high-necked jacket was dark blue to set off Cecily’s gown, and the trousers were a sedate coal grey. _I should show this to him,_ Cecily thought, standing up from her desk and rolling the paper into a slim cylinder. _He’s been worried about Orlesian puffed sleeves._

As usual, Cullen was bent over a stack of paperwork when Cecily pushed open the door to his office. But today he didn’t even glance up when the door’s hinges squeaked. Cecily assumed it must be an important report, but after a long moment, she realized that his eyes were focused on the wood of the desk and not on the papers at all.

She cleared her voice tentatively. “Cullen? Is everything all right?”

He started a bit and looked up. “Yes, fine. How are you?”

Cecily could tell that he was lying. His jaw was tight, there was a line between his eyebrows, and his eyes were narrow and unhappy. “Cullen, if there’s something wrong—”

“I’ve had a letter from my parents,” he interrupted abruptly. “Wintersend won’t—they cannot leave the farm during planting season.”

Cecily’s jaw dropped in shock. She slipped the rolled-up sketch into her left hand and drew it behind her back as if to hide it. “Cullen, you’re saying they won’t come? Couldn’t they—couldn’t they hire someone to plant for them, just for a week?”

Cullen rested his elbows on his desk and met her gaze with narrowed eyes. “It’s not that simple, Cecy. It’s their farm—they know the land. If the harvest goes bad because the people who plant don’t do it well, my parents will pay for it for years to come. And even if trustworthy people could be hired where would they get the money?” he asked roughly. “I would offer, but …”

“But what? It’s a splendid idea,” Cecily said, brightening.

“Cecy, where would _I_ get the money?” Cullen’s voice was low with exasperation. “Every coin we’ve found we’ve poured back into the Inquisition.”

“My parents have expressed a wish to give us a wedding gift—Marchers give coin to a new couple to help them start their life together,” Cecily said tentatively. “I hadn’t answered yet, but we could accept it and use the coin to—”

“No.” Cullen almost barked the word. “They won’t accept your family’s charity.”

Cecily bristled a bit. “Technically a wedding gift is supposed to be _our_ money. Couldn’t we at least _ask_ if they would allow us to pay for some help?”

“As it happens, your mother already offered to send them the funds to make the trip. They have declined.” Cullen’s mouth tightened and he dropped his gaze back to his desk, shuffling reports around seemingly at random.

The sketch crumpled in Cecily’s left hand as her fingers clenched around it. Her right hand raised up to cover her eyes. She felt like laughing, or screaming. Maybe both. “Oh, no. Cullen, I’m so sorry. She didn’t ask me.”

“I suspected as much,” he said, his voice tense. “It’s not your fault, Cecy. It’s just—they’re proud, and the idea of me marrying into a Bann’s family has been strange for them. At least Mia and my mother will be there. Father, Devon, and the children can manage the farms while they’re gone.”

Cecily shook her head again. “I’ll write to Leliana. Perhaps if we moved the wedding to First Day, we could—”

“We can discuss it,” Cullen interrupted. “But for now I really ought to get through these reports.” He gave her a thin, forced smile. “We’ll talk more later. I promise.”

That was Cullen’s way of saying that he simply could not deal with this right now; Cecily had long since learned to wait until he was ready rather than try to press the conversation. So she nodded and tried to smile back. The best she managed was a half-twist of her lips that felt more like a frown. Then she turned and left his office before she could begin crying—because Maker’s breath, this was hardly something to _cry_ over. Even if they couldn’t move the wedding they would see the Rutherfords again soon, and they’d still done the right thing by agreeing to the Val Royeaux wedding, hadn’t they?

Halfway through her agonized internal monologue Cecily ran smack into Dorian. Her friend took one look at her face and put his arm around her shoulders. “I know that expression. It’s time for a drink.”

“Just one may not do it today,” she warned him with a wobbly smile.

*****

Several hours later Dorian was half-guiding, half-supporting the very tipsy Herald of Andraste as they attempted to climb the stairs to her bedroom. Over a glass of wine and a game of chess Cecily had explained the latest news—including the Rutherfords’ inability to attend the Val Royeaux ceremony. Now, with several more glasses of wine in her, Cecily was much more cheerful but much less able to walk in a straight line.

“You’re a very good friend, Dorian,” she said loudly as they climbed.

“Yes, I am. I’m glad you’ve noticed.” Dorian grinned at her and pulled gently at her waist, helping her up the next step.

“If you liked women I’d want you to marry my sister Evie. Then you’d be my brother!” she said with a crooked grin. “Uch. Would they make _you_ get married in Val Royeaux?”

Dorian shuddered. Any plans he’d ever had for his _own_ wedding had involved escaping under cover of night. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d be married in Minrathous to a woman who loathes the very sight of me. It’s tradition in my family.”

Cecily giggled as they finally reached the top of the staircase. Her chamber was empty—not surprising, since they had spotted Cullen’s office lit with candles from the Skyhold courtyard—so Dorian guided her over to the bed and helped her pull her boots off. Once her shoes were gone Cecily immediately curled up on the covers and pulled her pillow close.

“Thank you, Dorian,” she murmured. “I’ll just rest a bit before I put my nightclothes on, all right?”

He patted her shoulder affectionately. “Good night, Cecily. Come see me tomorrow when you wake up with a splitting headache.”

“Mmm,” she agreed as her eyes fluttered closed.

Dorian turned to descend the stairs, but paused when he heard the door open. A moment later he saw Cullen’s familiar form rising from the stairwell.

Cullen gave him a puzzled look, but his eyes flashed in understanding when he spotted Cecily. “If you were anyone else I’d be a bit upset about you getting my fiancé drunk and putting her in bed,” the Commander said with a faint smile.

“I take no responsibility for getting her drunk, Commander. Everything after the second glass of wine was her idea.” Dorian examined Cullen’s face closely. “How are you coping with all of this? Because Cecy’s so anxious she’s going to pull a muscle from biting her lip.”

Cullen sighed. “I will admit the news about my family is—is a blow. And neither of us is much looking forward to being at the center of a grand public display. But the two of us don’t entirely belong to ourselves. Especially Cecy.” His face softened as he looked over at his sleeping fiancé. “I knew that when I fell in love with her. I’ll try to bear things more graciously. I survived months of wondering whether she was safe while she fought demons and Venatori. This wedding business is just a minor irritation.”

 _A minor irritation you don’t need,_ Dorian thought. _And would it really be so terrible to belong to just each other for one day?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding planning is a serious condition that affects millions of people every year. If you or someone you love is suffering from wedding planning, consult your nearest BFF and/or liquor store to get the help you need.


	3. The Invitations

_Crofter—You’re about to get an invitation to a party thrown by the Comte de Montcret. Long story short, he thinks he’s a collector of important antiquities, he bought something from the Deep Roads, and we’re pretty sure it’s got the red stuff in it. Do me a favor and swap it out for a copy. It’s a box about five inches long and four inches high—you’ll have to think about how to hide it._

_The Comte’s new gardener is one of ours. We call him Sweeper. Ask him if the grounds always look so bare. He’ll say, “in the spring these gardens will be filled with flowers.” Then ask if he grows any roses. He’ll say “only the pink and yellow ones, my Lady.” Tell him you favor white roses. He’ll tell you where to find the replica. Put the real thing back in the same hiding place and Sweeper will take it from there._

_Frostback_

 

* * *

 

**Val Royeaux, seven weeks before Satinalia**

The Comte’s party fell on a warm autumn night in Val Royeaux. It was one of those affairs that was halfway between a ball and a dinner party; waiters swept between the grand rooms of the Comte’s manor bearing trays of wine and food as the Comte’s guests mingled. Such parties provided the perfect occasion to gossip, negotiate political alliances, and-or plan extramarital affairs.

Evie floated between conversations, nursing the same glass of Orlesian red and begging ignorance whenever people asked her when invitations for the Inquisitor’s wedding were expected to go out. The question quickly became repetitive, but at least it cut back on the number of times she was asked about when she planned to get married herself. Evie still didn’t quite know how to answer that without inadvertently encouraging someone. At her last party she had tried telling people that she would marry when she found someone who looked at her the way Cullen looked at Cecy. That had the advantage of being the truth, but saying it out loud had resulted in half a dozen nobles giving her extremely soppy looks for the rest of the evening.

The Comte was a stout blonde man about forty years of age. As The Iron Bull had hinted he was extremely proud of his antiquities; they seemed to be the first thing he mentioned to everyone he met. Most of the guests found some reason to leave his side before he gave them a tour of his collection. Evie felt a bit sorry for the man’s obvious disappointment at their disinterest—but not sorry enough to refrain from using his passion against him. When her turn came to be invited for a tour she widened her eyes and said, “Do you have any dwarven antiquities? I’ve always been _fascinated_ by the Deep Roads!”

Five minutes later Evie was looking right at the artifact the Inquisition wanted her to steal. From a distance it looked like a plain gray box about the size of Evie’s hand; up close it was clearly a puzzle box made of intricate, interlocking blocks of iron and stone. It was not the most impressive piece in the Comte’s collection—that honor went to a solid gold Chantry scepter from the Exalted Age—but there was something undeniably compelling and eerie about the small item.

“Dwarven kings used to place treasures in puzzle boxes,” the Comte explained pompously, puffing out his chest as Evie leaned over the glass case and examined his treasure with fascinated eyes. Evie, meanwhile, tried to hide the fact that she was more interested in the case’s lock than in the box itself.

“Do you think there’s something inside _this_ one?” she asked breathlessly.

“I would not risk damaging the box by finding out. But sometimes I almost think I hear a song from within.” The Comte chuckled. “You must think me very fanciful.”

Evie just barely contained a wince; she knew enough about red lyrium to know that hearing music was _not_ a good sign. “Fanciful? Oh no, not at all,” she said honestly.

*

About an hour into the party Evie slipped out for a sunset walk outdoors. Autumn had taken its toll on the Comte’s gardens; the fashionable groomed hedges were still green, but the bushes and trees had shed most of their leaves and the effect was rather cold and grey. Evie kept her eyes on the horizon and whistled a little Marcher folk tune as she pretended to enjoy her walk. After several turns through the hedges she spotted a young human servant collecting the fallen leaves from beneath one of the garden’s largest trees.

“Pardon me. But I’d heard Val Royeaux was famous for its gardens. Are these grounds always so bare?” she asked with a haughty raised eyebrow.

The servant jumped. “Well. Ah. It’s autumn, my lady,” he said, clearly uncomfortable at being addressed by one of the guests.

“Indeed,” boomed a new voice in a strong Ferelden accent. “But in the spring these gardens will be filled with flowers.”

Evie turned her head to see another gardener walking around the nearest bend. The man was small, an inch or two shorter than Evie; his hands were gnarled with long years of physical labor and his grey beard was frizzled from working outdoors. His blue eyes were lively as he bowed and met Evie’s gaze with a little almost-wink. “Anthony, go fetch a basket to collect these leaves in. Sweeping them into one big pile won’t do anyone any good.”

Anthony nodded and ran off. The newcomer watched him go, then turned back to Evie. “As I was saying, my lady, in the spring these gardens will be filled with flowers.”

“Do you grow roses?”

“Only the pink and yellow ones, my lady.”

Evie sighed. “I’ve always liked the white ones best, myself.”

“You know, I do as well. Don’t tell the Comtesse,” the gardener said. This time he _did_ wink at her. “I’ve been planning to grow some white roses this spring, in fact. I’ve got my eye on the flowerbed along the west wall. Gets good light.”

Evie smiled. “In that case, I look forward to seeing them in the spring.” _Flowerbed along the west wall. Understood, Sweeper._

Evie continued her walk until she came to the place Sweeper had mentioned—a flowerbed about ten feet long by three feet wide, filled only with dirt and bare bushes. For a moment Evie worried that she would have difficulty locating the object, but then she spotted a few dried white rose petals scattered on the southeastern corner. She knelt and sank her fingers into the dirt—and was quickly rewarded when her fingertips met burlap. A moment later she’d pulled a small sack out from the soil and unwrapped it to reveal a very convincing copy of the dwarven puzzle box.

Unfortunately this was not the sort of party that allowed Evie to get away with a full-skirted ballgown; there would be no hiding this box underneath a crinoline. However, it was just small enough that Evie could tuck it in her reticule without too much trouble—although she did have to take care to make sure the box’s sharp corners did not tug at the silk fabric and give away the fact that she was carrying something rather unusual within. With that accomplished Evie straightened, clutched the top of her bag to keep it from swinging too wildly, and began the walk back to the mansion.

*

Once inside Evie helped herself to another glass of wine and forced herself through another half dozen conversations—resulting in another half dozen inquiries about the Inquisitor’s wedding. “I’d be afraid to guess when invitations might be issued,” Evie replied honestly when the Comtesse asked. “Madame de Fer and my mother would be the ones to ask.” _Not that they would give you an answer._

When she felt she’d been sufficiently seen Evie left the busiest rooms of the party and returned to the Comte’s collection. There was a couple in there—two men conversing in low and affectionate tones—so Evie pretended to be fascinated by the Storm Age jewelry displayed to the right of the puzzle box’s case. After a few minutes the couple slipped out in search of more privacy. Evie issued the two men a silent apology as they departed.

Then she went to work.

She began by setting her goblet in front of the door—if it swung open, the surprise of the broken glass would buy her a few seconds. Next, she pulled her lockpicks out of her sleeve and turned her attention to the case. Fortunately the lock was a simple one; soon she felt the bolts tumble open. With great care she eased the lid up with her left hand, touching only the wooden edge to avoid leaving smudges on the glass, and reached into her reticule with her right hand to initiate the swap. She tucked the original into her bag and positioned the replica carefully, trying to make sure it caught the light in exactly the same way as the original artifact. When she was finished she slowly lowered the lid back into place.

Just as Evie pulled the drawstrings on her bag closed the door swung open; her goblet tipped over and shattered with a loud _crash_ of crystal. Evie quickly took one large step to her left and turned towards the door with wide, horrified eyes. Slowly, the door opened to reveal the Comte, another guest trailing behind him.

“Oh, my apologies!” Evie gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t want to risk spilling anything on your lovely collection, but how foolish of me to put my wine in front of the door!”

“It’s quite all right, Lady Evelyn,” the Comte said. His voice was somewhat clipped—the red wine was going to leave a stain on a very expensive-looking carpet—but his expression brightened when he saw the case she’d been looking at. “I see you appreciate the Storm Age jewelry. The ladies always do.”

Evie smiled and nodded. “Such clever stonework! They must have looked spectacular in a ballroom.” Inside, she was cursing—she hadn’t had time to re-lock the case and her lockpicks were still tucked into her left hand.

Her stomach sank as the Comte drew his guest—a dignified silver-haired woman in her sixties—over to the dwarven puzzle box. “My latest acquisition,” he said proudly. “Here, it’s even more intriguing when you see it without the glass.” The Comte drew a tiny silver key from his pocket with a flourish. Evie forced herself to focus on the glittering jewelry as he slid the key into the lock and began to turn it.

Fortunately, it turned out the Comte was not the sort of person who noticed when he was unlocking an already-unlocked bolt. He simply turned the key to the left and opened the case with a flourish. “There! What do you think?”

“Most impressive,” the noblewoman murmured, bending close to examine the copy.

Evie’s heartbeat began to slow to a normal pace. She turned towards the Chantry scepter in the corner and quietly tucked her lockpicks back into her sleeve, thankful that the Comte hadn’t suspected anything was amiss.

An hour later Evie was on her way home—and the red lyrium box was safely buried in the southeast corner of Sweeper’s flowerbed.

*

Evie went to bed that evening with a wide smile on her face. It was nice to have an unambiguous win for the first time in weeks. Not that planning Cecily and Cullen’s wedding was a competition. But if it were a competition, Evie was fairly certain she would be losing and the score wouldn’t even be close.

Evie had always thought of herself as someone who was good at getting her way. She wasn’t manipulative; she simply told people what she wanted and then explained why her choice was the best possible option until everyone involved agreed with her (or gave in out of sheer exhaustion).

Compared to Vivienne, however, Evie was apparently a rank amateur. Every time Evie tried to scale back some of what Vivienne and her mother were planning—to reduce the number of jewels on Cecy’s dress, or invite fewer Marquises, or eliminate the first ballroom dance for the married couple (something she knew Cullen would _hate_ )—Vivienne smiled, said “oh _no_ darling, that just won’t do!” and somehow won the argument no matter how sensibly Evie explained her position. She was outnumbered, that was the problem. Vivienne had yet to come up with an idea that Sophia didn’t adore, and vice versa.

But successfully swapping out the lyrium box gave Evie the optimism to try again. _Surely if I can steal antiquities in the middle of a crowded party I can persuade Vivienne and Mother to give up the idea of making Cullen dance in public._


	4. The Guest List

“I really don’t think we need all of these Trevelyan fourth cousins,” Evie ventured the next afternoon as Sophia and Vivienne tried to determine exactly _which_ two thousand people would be permitted to sit in the Grand Cathedral to watch the blessed event. “Most of them cut us dead after Cecy went to the Circle.”

“Which will make it all the more satisfying to rub their faces in the fact that she’s now the most important woman in Thedas!” Sophia trilled, beaming at the latest version of the list. She and Evie had rented a grand home in Val Royeaux to help Vivienne plan; the parlor had become their own small version of the Inquisition’s War Room, with the guest list replacing the map of Thedas.

“Oh, no, darling. If you include them they’ll think they’ve been forgiven. Better to have them lose out on the most desirable invitation of the decade!” Vivienne replied. The mage slashed the offending names off the list with a flourish and a slightly vicious little smile.

Evie’s pleasure at finally getting one of her ideas through quickly dissolved when she noticed something else amiss on the portion of the list labeled _Family_. “Mother, there’s been a mistake. Mia and Delia are the only members of Cullen’s family on the list. There should be more than a dozen—his siblings and nieces and nephews and both of his parents.”

Vivienne and Sophia exchanged a look. “Unfortunately, Delia wrote to us to say they cannot attend. Wintersend is far too busy a time on the farm,” Sophia said with genuine regret.

Evie’s heart fell in horror. “Then we should move the date!” she gasped. _How could this not have occurred to them?_ “We should hold the wedding at Satinalia, like they wanted. Or even First Day might be better. Andraste’s _toes_ , Mother—”

“The Maker can hear you swear, Evie.”

“—we can’t have two thousand people and only two members of Cullen’s family at this wedding!”

“Darling, it’s so sweet of you to be concerned, but travel to Val Royeaux during the winter will be too difficult for our distinguished guests,” Vivienne said calmly. “We’ve done everything we could to bring Cullen’s family here but the Rutherfords made their choice.”

“I even offered to send them money to hire planters for the spring,” Sophia said, clearly hoping to placate her daughter. “They said no. They’re concerned that things won’t be done correctly if they aren’t there to supervise.”

Evie felt her knees give way; her bottom hit her chair with an audible _thump_. “Mother. Please tell me you didn’t really do that.”

Sophia looked at her, clearly puzzled by her tone. “Of course I did! We hardly lack for coin, Evie. Why shouldn’t I offer it to people who are going to become part of our family if they need it to attend their own son’s wedding?”

Evie groped for the right words to explain the problem—to explain why Sophia’s offer would only have served to remind the Rutherfords of the massive and very awkward class difference between themselves and the Trevelyans. “They’re quite proud, from what Cecy’s told me,” she said lamely. “Ferelden and all that. They wouldn’t like the thought of accepting charity.”

“Nonsense, darling. It was a _gift_ ,” Vivienne said. “The sensible thing to do would have been to accept it. But they have their reasons, I’m sure.” Based on her expression Madame de Fer did not think they were likely to be _good_ reasons.

Sophia nodded vigorously. “It is too bad, I agree. But Cecy and Cullen will visit South Reach another time.”

Evie gritted her teeth and swallowed a cutting comment. She knew her mother well enough to realize that anything she said now wouldn’t help. The damage was already done and Sophia wouldn’t truly understand no matter how many times Evie explained it. Besides, her mother’s heart had been in the right place; she had only wanted to help.

With a silent sigh, Evie turned her attention back to the guest list. _Perhaps there will be a few Trevelyan fifth cousins I can persuade Vivienne to eliminate._

*

By late afternoon Evie had a splitting headache and she begged off yet another trip to the Val Royeaux seamstress in order to rest. Vivienne and her mother required remarkably little convincing before they agreed to leave her behind. Evie and her mother were used to disagreeing with one another about nearly everything, but Evie suspected that Madame de Fer was growing weary of her opinions.

Once she was excused, Evie climbed the wide staircase in their rented manor and locked herself in her room, a pleasant little chamber overlooking what was probably going to be a beautiful garden come Wintersend. She had intended to lie down on her bed and scream into her pillow—but there was a letter waiting for her on her desk.

For a moment Evie hoped it was another assignment from The Iron Bull, but the fact that it hadn’t been delivered by raven was rather a giveaway, as was the fact that it was addressed to her by name. Evie didn't recognize the flowing, masculine hand that had written the direction, but the paper was clearly expensive. _A suitor? Bother._

Well, there was no sense in putting it off. Evie broke the seal with a resigned groan and unfolded the letter.

> _Dear Evie,_
> 
> _I do hope I’m allowed to call you Evie. I feel as if we’ve known each other for months, though we’ve never officially been introduced. My name is Dorian Pavus and if Cecily hasn’t told you about me I’m going to feel rather hurt, since she’s told me quite a lot about you._
> 
> _I’m sure you’ve realized that this Val Royeaux wedding is becoming an absolute nightmare. Cullen’s family cannot attend, the guest list is filled with far too many nobles, and whose idea was it to make Cullen dance in front of two thousand people? (Not yours, I’m certain.) Cullen would rather cut off his hand than utter a word of complaint, and you know Cecily will do anything if she thinks it’s her duty to do it. But the two of them look utterly miserable._
> 
> _So I’ve had a thought. What if someone—say, the two of us—went ahead with planning the original Satinalia wedding? We’d have to keep it a secret, of course—Cecily and Cullen would just tell us not to go to so much trouble. But all we’d really have to do is get your family and the Rutherfords here, plus a few close friends who aren’t in Skyhold any longer. The Inquisition’s people have a remarkable ability to throw together a party on extremely little notice. And ~~Leliana~~ Divine Victoria could still preside over the grand symbolic celebration in Val Royeaux, the one that’s supposed to heal every wound from the mage-Templar war, put a smile on people’s faces, finally convince you southerners that mages are people, et cetera._
> 
> _Well? What do you think?_
> 
> _Best regards,_
> 
> _Dorian Pavus_

Evie felt a warm smile spreading across her face as she read Dorian's letter.  _Of course!_ It was such an obvious solution, but immersed as she'd been in the Val Royeaux wedding, she hadn't been able to see it herself. _Thank the Maker Cecy and Cullen have more attentive friends._

Eagerly, she pulled out her chair, sat down, and reached for her inkwell.

_*_

_Dear Dorian,_

_Apparently everything Cecy told me about you was absolutely true. It’s a brilliant idea. How can I help?_

_Evie_


	5. The Venue

_Dear Cecy,_

_I’ll begin with the bad news. Mother and Vivienne are still set on having you and Cullen open your wedding ball with a dance. I must say I have never felt quite so helpless as I do when Mother and Madame de Fer agree on something. Persuading them to change their minds is rather like trying to persuade a stone wall to move just a few feet to the left._

_The good news (at least I hope you will consider it good news) is that they are willing to send me to Skyhold to teach Cullen to dance. (In truth, I think Vivienne is bored of explaining why I am wrong about everything.) I will leave at the end of the week—unless my visit to the Inquisition will cause you difficulties? If it is at all inconvenient please do not hesitate to say so._

_Love, Evie_

_*_

_Dear Evie,_

_Inconvenient? Absolutely not. I insist that you come to Skyhold immediately. There are so many people at the Inquisition I want you to meet and it will be wonderful to have you here for as long as you can stay._

_Cullen has asked me to tell you that he will try not to be a hopeless pupil, and while he is not particularly looking forward to dancing, he is looking forward to seeing you again._

_Love, Cecy_

 

* * *

**Skyhold, four weeks before Satinalia**

Evie’s first glimpse of Skyhold was—to say the least—memorable. One moment it seemed as if her horse was plodding towards nothing at all; the next, the road through the mountains curved and there it was, an ancient stone fortress that dwarfed the Grand Cathedral itself.

She felt her breath quicken as she stared up at that forbidding structure. She could see the Inquisition’s banners waving from the battlements; the white eye of the Inquisition’s sigil stared down at their caravan as they approached. _We see you_ , the banners seemed to say. _You cannot hope to approach us without our knowledge_.

Evie had always associated the Inquisition with Cecy. But for the first time she thought she understood something of how the Inquisition must look to its enemies. There was no denying it—Skyhold was more than a little terrifying.

The leader of their caravan, an Inquisition lieutenant in her mid-thirties, saw the look on Evie’s face and chuckled. “It takes most folks that way,” she said kindly. “Guess even the Inquisitor’s sister finds that first look at Skyhold a sight.”

“A sight indeed,” Evie managed, shaking her head. _Maker, Cecy. You’re in charge of this bloody thing?_

The entrance to Skyhold was blocked by a large iron portcullis, but this was lowered after the caravan leader sounded out a series of blasts on her horn. Evie took note of the sequence—not that she thought she’d need it, but part of her mind was always focused on gathering useful intelligence—and tried to quell her rising unease as she rode into Skyhold. Cecy had seemed happy to have her visit, but what place was there for a Bann’s youngest daughter in such a fortress?

The caravan pulled to a stop in a large courtyard; the Inquisition lieutenant leapt from her horse and began barking orders. Evie herself stayed perched on her horse, looking around, not wanting to get in the way.

Finally she spotted a familiar figure standing at the top of a nearby staircase—Cecily, dressed in form-fitting leggings and a high-necked jacket. The Inquisitor was scanning the caravan with barely concealed impatience; when she caught Evie’s eye, Cecy beamed widely enough to chase away all of Evie’s nerves.

Evie just barely stopped herself from raising her arm and shaking it in an extremely undignified wave. However, she didn’t stop herself from dismounting her horse as quickly as she could and taking the steps two at a time in order to throw her arms around her sister.

“My apologies, I must smell like a horse,” she said, not hugging Cecy any less tightly.

“You do, a bit,” Cecy admitted. “But I don’t mind in the least. _Maker,_ Evie, it’s so good to have you here! What do you think of Skyhold?”

“It’s large and quite terrifying,” Evie said honestly.

Cecy laughed. “That’s what I thought of it at first too. Now it’s just home. Do you want a bath straightaway? Or would you like to look around first?”

“Ooh. A tour, if you have the time,” Evie said, shaking dust from the sleeve of her riding coat. She supposed she ought to make herself more presentable before parading herself around the Inquisition, but it was hard to feel too self-conscious about a bit of travel dirt in the middle of a military base. Besides, she was eager to let Dorian knew she’d arrived.

“I believe I have time—though it’s difficult to tell when I’ll be interrupted with a new crisis,” Cecy said wryly, taking her sister’s arm. “I think nearly everyone’s watching Cullen and Bull spar in the training yards. Shall I introduce you?”

Evie’s face brightened; she was _very_ curious to meet the Inquisition’s new spymaster. “Please. It’s high time I met all of these splendid friends you keep bragging about,” she teased.

Cecy squeezed her arm affectionately. “They’ll say the same thing about meeting you.”

*

Cullen was trading blows with an enormous Qunari warrior when Cecily and Evie joined the small circle of observers a moment later. Evie couldn’t help staring; she hadn’t met all that many Qunari, but The Iron Bull was by far the biggest and most frightening-looking one she had ever seen. He was at least thrice her weight, perhaps more, and towered over her future brother-in-law. He’d also taken his shirt off—in order to show off his musculature, Evie assumed. She had to admit the effect was intimidating.

Despite the size difference Cullen was more than holding his own, his sword and shield quicker and more adaptable than Bull’s heavy two-handed weapon. Evie tried to be unobtrusive as she stepped into the circle of viewers. They were using training weapons, but even so, she didn’t want to distract anyone and cause an injury.

“They do this at least twice a week,” Cecily murmured.

Evie winced as Bull landed a bone-crushing blow on Cullen’s shield; the Commander shook it off more easily than anyone had a right to do and immediately struck back. “They look like they’re taking this seriously.”

"They are," a solemn voice said from somewhere to Evie's left. "They like each other too much not to. The test is important."

Evie turned her head to see a rail-thin blond man peering at her through uneven bangs. He blinked at her twice before speaking again. "Hallo. I'm Cole. Was I interrupting? It is hard to know sometimes."

"Not at all," Evie assured him. "I'm Evie, Cecily's sister. It's nice to meet you, Cole. She's told me a lot about you." 

This seemed to please the spirit boy; his wide mouth curved in a smile. "It is nice to meet you too," he said carefully, watching her as if to make sure that was the right thing to say. Evie gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

A gasp rose from the assembled crowd; Cullen had rolled in the dirt to avoid a blow that would have ended the match. "Have they ever hurt each other?" Evie whispered as Cullen stood and struck back.

“A few broken ribs. Nothing the healers can’t handle with ease,” Cecily assured her.

“Isn’t Bull cold?” Evie asked skeptically. Ostwick had a mild climate and she herself felt chilly so high in the mountains.

“Oh, he never wears a shirt,” a new voice replied from behind Evie. “Not even in a blizzard. A pity you weren’t here a few months ago. These little sparring sessions are much more entertaining in the summer, when they _both_ do this shirtless.”

“Dorian!” Cecily whispered, stifling a laugh.

Evie turned her head to see an elegantly dressed man grinning at them both, his dark eyes sparkling merrily and his carefully groomed mustache curling above his smile. “Oh, come now, Inquisitor, you enjoy it too. Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you snuck around the training grounds before you and Cullen finally began courting.”

Cecily blushed pink; with great dignity, she changed the subject. “Dorian, may I present my sister, Evelyn Trevelyan?”

Dorian turned his gaze to Evie; she extended her hand to him as if they were perfect strangers. His expression betrayed nothing as he took her fingers in his and bowed over them. “Dorian of house Pavus. It’s an honor, Lady Evelyn.”

“The honor is mine,” Evie said, bobbing a curtsy. “Please call me Evie. Cecy tells me we’re cousins?”

“Very distant. But I do enjoy bragging that I am related to the Inquisitor,” Dorian said cheerfully. “Welcome to Skyhold. How long will you be—”

Dorian’s question was cut off by a cheer; Cullen had successfully landed a killing blow against Bull’s right side. The Qunari rubbed the rising welt ruefully, then laughed and held out his hand. “Well fought, Commander.”

“I had to avenge last week’s debacle,” Cullen said wryly. He shifted his sword to his left hand in order to clasp Bull’s forearm.

Cecily curled her hand through Evie’s elbow and pulled her forward. “Cullen!”

The Commander turned his head towards his fiancé’s voice. Evie felt a brief flicker of nerves—Cullen’s visit to the Trevelyan estate had not been easy, and while she _thought_ he liked her, he was a reserved man and she found it a bit difficult to tell for sure. But his smile when he spotted her was warm and genuine. “Evie! We hoped you would arrive today. Welcome to Skyhold.”

Evie returned his smile with a grin of her own. “Thank you for having me. I’ve wanted to visit for the longest time.”

Her eyes flicked over to the Qunari. The Iron Bull did not look much like her idea of a spymaster, but she supposed that was rather the point—who would suspect such a large and obvious man of being a spy? His expression was friendly, but she could feel his single eye looking her over with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze and held out her hand. “Evie Trevelyan. You must be The Iron Bull.”

The Qunari’s eye crinkled as he smiled at her; his hand dwarfed hers as he reached out to shake it. “That’s me, all right. Nice to meet you at last.”

“I’m giving Evie the tour of Skyhold,” Cecily told the two men. “Care to join us?”

Cullen grimaced guiltily. “I’m afraid that may have to wait. Josephine came to see us just before we began our match. Our afternoon Council meeting will be necessary after all. There’s some sort of trade dispute brewing between Kirkwall and Starkhaven that she wants to discuss.”

Cecily looked over at Evie with an apologetic frown. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Evie.”

“Not at all,” Evie assured her. “I should really bathe before I meet too many people.”

“Here, why don’t I show her to her room?” Dorian suggested, stepping forward to join the conversation.

The Iron Bull’s eye flickered over to the Tevinter mage—then shifted back to Evie and the Inquisitor so quickly that she almost thought she’d imagined the look. Evie glanced over at Dorian; he was smiling down at her and very deliberately _not_ looking at Bull.

“Take care of your trade issues. I’ll find you later,” Evie said, planting a kiss on Cecily’s cheek. “I’m sure Dorian can keep me out of trouble.”

Dorian laughed. “My dear cousin. You obviously know nothing about me if you think that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a shamefully long time between updates for this story! I think it's back on track now.


	6. The Vows

Dorian tried to force down his discomfort as he led Evie away from the training grounds. He’d been perfectly content in his relationship—or arrangement, or liaison, or whatever it was he had with The Iron Bull—and then yesterday morning that damned question had just fallen out of his mouth.

_Where do you see this going?_

What in the Maker’s name had he been thinking? He blamed the wedding. Too many hours spent thinking about Cecily and Cullen’s future had clearly addled his head.

Bull had just blinked at him and then asked what he meant, in that infuriatingly calm way of his. Dorian had tried and failed to explain himself before giving up and telling Bull to forget it. And maybe Bull had forgotten it, but Dorian knew he wouldn't. He couldn’t even look Bull in the eye now. And wasn’t _that_ ridiculous, that a mere question would embarrass him far more than any of the other things they’d done in private?

He shook the thought away and looked over at Evie. The little noblewoman gave him a quick, bland smile—exactly the kind of expression Dorian was used to seeing on Bull’s face when the former Ben-Hassrath was noticing things and pretending not to.

Well, two could play at that game. Dorian made a show of glancing around for prying eyes and ears before whispering, “All right, we’re alone. I’ll take you to your room—but then I’ll show you the headquarters of our little conspiracy.”

Evie flashed him a grin. “I can hardly wait.”

*

“I’ve found it necessary to recruit a few more co-conspirators. Josephine helped me lay claim to this room and is hiding secret deliveries,” Dorian told Evie as he led her down the hall from her guest quarters. “And then Sera noticed I was up to something and would not stop until I let her in on the surprise.” He hadn’t exactly planned for Sera to be involved. At least the elf had been more discreet than he’d feared—but he supposed an accomplished prankster was good at keeping schemes quiet.

He heard the startled scrape of chair legs as pushed the door open. “It’s me!” he called out.

Sera let out an exasperated sigh as the two newcomers slipped inside. The room Josephine had found them was a small sitting room, furnished with only one desk and a handful of mismatched chairs that Sera had commandeered from any location in Skyhold unlikely to miss them. The elf was seated to their left at the small desk, a letter half-completed in front of her. The wall to the right of the door was covered with lists—of people they wanted to bring to Skyhold, of things they would need for the ceremony, of tasks finished and still unfinished.

“Oi! Warning next time!” Sera scolded as the door closed behind Dorian. “I’m trying to write back to Varric, right?” She jabbed her pen at the paper in front of her for emphasis.

Dorian glanced over her shoulder. “He can come, I hope.”

“I told him if he wasn’t here the next letter would have bees in it. He’s coming.” Sera grinned. “So’s all the Rutherfords, kids and parents right down to the last ones. That just leaves Thom an’ the Divine an’ the Seeker an’ Lord and Lady Fancypants.” Lightning-quick, Sera’s sunny grin was replaced by a scowl.

Belatedly, Dorian realized that Sera was unlikely to be pleased about their new arrival. “Sera, this is Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, Cecily's sister. She’s here to help us.”

Evie ignored Sera’s narrowed eyes and stuck out her hand. “I go by Evie. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sera frowned at the outstretched hand and shook it so quickly it almost didn’t happen. “You don’t look much like the Inquisitor.”

Evie shrugged. “My bad luck, I suppose,” she said cheerfully.

Only then did Dorian process that one of the names on Sera’s list didn’t belong there. “Hold a moment. Thom _Rainier_? Sera, I don’t think …”

Sera crossed her arms defiantly. “He fought with us same as anyone else.”

“None of the rest of us lied about who we were and almost cost the Inquisition Orlais’s support,” Dorian pointed out.

The archer rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a _prig_ , Dorian. He tried to change and do better. ‘S more than most people ever do. If we’re inviting _Vivvy_ we’re inviting Thom.” She curled her top lip at Dorian in a clear challenge.

Dorian decided this wasn’t the hill he wanted to die on. “He might not come,” he warned her. “Warden business and all that.”

“Nah. He’ll come,” Sera said happily. She grabbed a piece of paper and shoved it at Dorian, seemingly unaware of the way it crinkled in her grasp. “Here. I’ll write to Thom, you write to the Trevvy-whatsits.” With one last, skeptical glance at Evie, Sera seized pen and paper and bounced out the door. It clapped shut with a loud _bang,_ leaving Dorian and Evie alone.

Dorian tried to smooth out the paper Sera had stuck in his hands; it was clearly unsalvageable. “I’m sorry about Sera,” he told Evie. “It’s nothing personal, but she hates nobles.”

“No wonder she doesn't like Vivienne,” Evie said wryly. “I’m rather surprised they didn’t kill each other.”

Dorian chuckled. “I think we were all a little surprised by that.” He crumpled the ruined paper and tossed it in the nearby wastebin, where it joined several dozen of Sera’s sketches. “So how _should_ we approach your parents?”

Evie sighed. “It … may not be easy. Father will take this in stride, but Mother is likely to be unhappy. The Val Royeaux wedding means a great deal to her. My suggestion would be to invite them here for Satinalia and spring the wedding on them as a surprise.” Her mouth twisted in a not-entirely-happy smile. “Just blame me for the plan. She’s used to disliking almost everything I do.”

Dorian sighed sympathetically. “I know the feeling. We should compare notes on parental disapproval sometime. But I’m warning you, I’ll win.”

Evie chuckled. “I’m sorry to hear it. Perhaps I’m worrying too much. Maybe when Mother sees how happy Cecy and Cullen are she’ll feel more favorably towards the whole thing.” Her tone suggested that she doubted this, but was going to try to be optimistic. “Well. Shall we get started?”

Dorian smiled and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. “I thought you’d never ask.”

 

* * *

 

The conversation about the latest Starkhaven-Kirkwall dispute went on longer than Cecily had hoped, but not as long as she’d feared. She decided to consider that a triumph. Mediating between the two Marcher cities had become one of the Inquisition’s trickiest post-Corypheus tasks. Prince Sebastian had withdrawn his troops from Kirkwall and had made no secret of his unhappiness at the Inquisition’s lack of support for his efforts there. Now he was determined to find other ways to punish Kirkwall and its Guard-Captain. The Prince was an important ally; Cecily did not want to alienate him. But nor was she willing to put the Inquisition’s resources behind Sebastian’s vendetta.

At the end of the meeting, Cecily had agreed to sit down with Josephine to craft a personal letter from the Inquisitor to the Prince, expressing her support for the least objectionable of his goals. She would also write to her mother and Vivienne to ensure that the Prince received a prominent seat at the Val Royeaux wedding—a slightly frivolous but very public illustration of their alliance. Meanwhile, Bull’s agents in Starkhaven would look for other ways to appease or help the Prince, and Cullen would warn the Inquisition’s troops in the Free Marches to watch for any signs of open conflict between Kirkwall and Starkhaven forces and ask them to keep the peace if they could.

 With all that settled, Cullen left to write letters to his lieutenants and Josephine returned to her office. The Iron Bull began paging through a stack of reports from Josephine’s agents, adding their diplomatic intelligence to his overall picture of the situation in the Free Marches. Cecily paused for a moment to look over the War Table, to appreciate the absence of the eerie red figurines that had once symbolized Samson and Corypheus’s troops. She was just about to join Josephine when she heard Bull clear his throat from the other side of the table.

“Hey, boss? Can I ask you something?”

Cecily had never heard so much hesitation in the former mercenary’s voice. “Of course,” she said immediately, raising her head to look at him.

The Iron Bull set his stack of reports down on the War Table. He opened his mouth, then frowned and paused, apparently thinking about how to ask his question. “So when you bas get married. You stand up in front of a bunch of people and promise to be together forever?” His shoulders tensed ever so slightly as he spoke.

Cecily nodded. “That’s the basic idea.” She tried not to look too confused, or too curious. She wasn’t sure where Bull was going with this but it clearly wasn’t a comfortable conversation for him.

Bull crossed his arms and furrowed his brow. “And you’re sure that you will be? That you’ll always want to be with that person and no one else?”

“Well, some marriages are political—the vows are just for show,” Cecily said honestly. “And not every marriage is happy. Even people who love each other when they wed might think they made a mistake, one day.”

Bull scowled. “Then why do it? Why not just be together and take it one day at a time? Why make promises when you don’t know you can keep them?”

 _Is this about Dorian?_ Cecily wondered with a shock. She tried to push aside worry about their relationship to focus on Bull’s question, which was not an easy one to answer. She traced a thoughtful pattern on the War Table with her right forefinger as she grappled for a reply. “I can’t answer for everyone,” she said at last. “But I—I want to build my life with Cullen. I want him to know that whatever we face we will face side by side, and that if things are difficult I will fight to keep us together.” She smiled suddenly. “And perhaps everyone says this when they’re about to wed, but with Cullen I really do believe in forever.”

“You always figure you’d get married someday?” Bull asked curiously.

“Maker, no,” Cecily laughed. “Before Leliana became Divine mages weren’t allowed, not outside of Tevinter. I don’t think Cullen planned on it either. Most Templars never marry.”

Bull looked as if he might ask something else, but then he shook his head. “Thanks, boss. All this wedding talk—I’d just been wondering. No one gets married in the Qun. The idea of planning an entire future with just one other person is kinda hard to get my head around.” The spymaster dropped his gaze back to his stack of reports; his massive hands resumed shuffling through Josephine’s papers. It took Cecily a moment to realize that he was re-reading reports he’d already reviewed.

“Bull? Is there—is there anything you need to talk about?” Cecily asked.

The warrior grunted. “Nah, I’m good, boss,” he said without looking up.

Cecily was fairly certain that was the first time Bull had ever lied to her.


	7. The first dance

_Darling,_

_Of course we will ensure a prominent seat for Prince Sebastian at the wedding. All of Thedas will see him sitting with your closest friends and allies, confirming his relationship with the Inquisition just as you wish._

_It occurs to me that the Prince is still a bachelor. Perhaps an introduction to your delightful sister is in order? A Bann’s younger daughter would be a rather modest match for the Prince of Starkhaven under normal circumstances, but as the Inquisitor’s sister Lady Evelyn would be a most eligible Princess. And it certainly would solidify good relations with Starkhaven. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s something to consider._

_Plans are moving along smoothly in Val Royeaux. How are the Commander’s dance lessons proceeding?_

_Vivienne_

 

* * *

 

**Skyhold, three weeks before Satinalia**

Cecily read Vivienne’s latest letter over a late breakfast with Evie on her Skyhold balcony. The morning was a bit cool, but Cecily expended a slightly frivolous amount of magic creating a pocket of warm air around their table. Winter would hit Skyhold with a vengeance any day now and she intended to enjoy every moment that the sun was shining and snow wasn’t blizzarding from the sky.

Evie’s gaze was fixed on the landscape around Skyhold. Most would have assumed she was still in awe of the impressive view, but Cecily sensed something else behind her sister’s distraction. There had been something on Evie’s mind ever since she had arrived at Skyhold. At first Cecily thought she was imagining it—but now she was certain that she was right. _A mission that was more harrowing than she reported? A suitor who actually interests her? Another fight with our mother?_

Cecily had resolved to be patient and not to pry; Evie would tell her what was going on when and if she wanted to. Even so, she could not surrender a chance to claim her sister’s _full_ attention. “Evie, what do you think of Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven?”

Evie froze with her spoon halfway from her bowl. “Um. I only met him once. He seemed very, um, Princely.” She shoved her bite of oatmeal into her mouth, clearly attempting to end the conversation with food.

Cecily fought back a smile. “I’ve just had a letter from Vivienne. She’s suggesting that you and he might make a good match.”

“Mmph,” mumbled Evie through her oatmeal.

Cecily set the letter down beside her plate and tapped it thoughtfully. “It’s a splendid idea, really. Just think, you’d be a Princess! And it would be terribly convenient for the Inquisition. Shall I write to him with the introduction and make sure he saves you a dance at our wedding ball?”

Two spots of red appeared on Evie’s cheeks and her eyes went wide. After a brief struggle, she choked down her food and gasped, “ _Cecy_! Not you too! You …”

A giggle escaped Cecily’s chest; Evie’s mouth dropped open, relief and outrage mixed on her face. “You’re teasing me! Oh, I could just kill you.” Impulsively she seized a handful of berries from the bowl on the table and flung them at her sister. Laughing, Cecily threw her magic up to deflect them; most of the berries fell to the balcony, although she felt at least one land in her hair.

“Careful! Those might be the last berries we’ll have all winter.”

“Then I’m glad I’m throwing them at you,” Evie retorted. She stuck her tongue out at her sister. “You deserve it. Prince Sebastian indeed.”

“I’m glad to see the time apart did not diminish your sisterly affection,” Cullen said wryly as he pushed open the door to the balcony. “Good morning, Evie.”

“Morning, Cullen!” Evie said cheerfully with a little wave of her spoon.

“How were the morning training exercises?” Cecily asked. She hoped Evie could not hear the thread of concern in her voice. Last night Cullen had barely slept; an attack of lyrium withdrawal had made his nightmares even worse than usual.

“Oh, riveting as ever.” Cullen’s eyes focused on the little tray of pastries sitting between the sisters. Cecily felt encouraged to see his appetite had recovered, at least.

“Join us,” Evie said, pointing to an empty chair sitting further along the balcony.

“Yes, please. I’m trying to convince Evie to stop all of this nonsense between Kirkwall and Starkhaven by marrying Prince Sebastian,” Cecily said lightly.

Cullen grimaced. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that, my love. I don’t particularly want His Highness for a brother-in-law.” He pulled the chair over, sat, and reached for a dense Ferelden-style pastry encrusted with almonds and sugar.

“Do you know the Prince?” Evie asked curiously.

“A bit. He spent a number of years in Kirkwall dithering about whether he’d stay in the Chantry or reclaim his throne. Then he went back to Starkhaven after the mage rebellion and promptly invaded us. He called it ‘aid.’” Cullen snorted. “Personally I found it less than helpful.”

Evie beamed enthusiastically. “Oh, he sounds splendid, Cecy. Tell Vivienne I’ll take him!”

Cecily smiled. “The Prince has been a loyal supporter of the Inquisition,” fairness prompted her to add. “He was one of the first to reach out to us with an offer of friendship.”

Evie glared at the Inquisitor and crossed her eyes. Cecily coughed with laughter. “But that doesn’t mean I think he should marry my sister,” she finished.

“Glad to hear it.” Evie popped a berry into her mouth. “I should let you two prepare for the morning council meeting.”

“Are you finding enough to do in Skyhold? I’m sorry we’ve been so busy,” Cecily said, guilt fluttering in her stomach.

“More than enough,” the younger woman assured her. “Every day there’s someone new to meet, I’ve been practicing my archery, and Dorian says if I keep trying I might achieve mere incompetence at chess.”

“From Dorian that’s almost a compliment,” Cullen laughed.

Something else that had been nagging at Cecily returned to the forefront of her mind. “Evie, has Dorian mentioned anything about The Iron Bull? Things between them seem a bit strange at the moment. Not that I want you to betray any confidences,” she added hurriedly.

Evie shook her head. “Not a word. But I haven’t seen them speak to each other since I’ve been here. Should I try to find out?”

Cullen frowned. “I think it might be best not to meddle. They’re grown men, eventually they’ll stop avoiding each other and sort things out.”

Evie nodded somberly. Cecily recognized that gesture; it was the nod Evie gave to her mother when she intended to follow the letter but not the spirit of her suggestions.

“Speaking of avoiding things, Commander, is there any chance I might persuade you to begin those dance lessons?” her sister asked with an arched eyebrow.

Cullen's cheeks flushed. “After lunch?” he said sheepishly. “I suppose my alternative is to embarrass myself in front of an entire ballroom of Orlesians.”

Cecily prepared to intervene—today was perhaps not the best day for Cullen to try to learn court dancing. But he spotted her concern and took her hand, squeezing it to reassure her that this would be all right. She squeezed it back.

“This afternoon,” Evie agreed with a smile. “Meet me in that dining room underneath the throne room. I’ll try to take care of the spiders first.”

 

* * *

 

“Dorian? Do you know how to dance an allemande?” Evie asked as they reviewed the list of supplies they wanted for the chapel. The two of them were sitting side by side at the little desk in their secret room; their elbows had bumped a few times, but other than that Dorian was pleased with their progress that morning. Overall he thought this was all going rather well. Much as he liked Sera, he had to admit Evie was a welcome addition to their team, since she could be counted on to do exactly what she promised instead of seven things they hadn’t agreed on at all.

Dorian frowned. “I could fumble my way through one, I suppose, though they’re somewhat out of fashion in Tevinter.” He paused to place a check mark next to the word _Candles._ “Why?”

“I’m going to try to teach Cullen one this afternoon.” Evie crossed her pen over _Flowers_ and wrote _Garlands_ next to it, then checked it off. “Flowers were too difficult to find this late in the season, so I’ve ordered Marcher-style Satinalia decorations instead,” she explained when Dorian gave her a quizzical look. “They’ll look very festive.”

“I’ll take your word for it. So what do the Commander’s dance lessons have to do with me?”

“Can you come and help me teach him? I think this might go easier if there’s someone to demonstrate the man’s steps, not just me doing everything backwards.”

Dorian chuckled. “I’d pay good money to watch the Commander learn an Orlesian court dance. I’ll be there.”

“Oh, thank you. Do you think anyone else might like to come? Perhaps The Iron Bull?” Evie looked up at him with an expression that was entirely too innocent.

“I can’t think why he would,” Dorian said carelessly. He felt his frame stiffen despite his attempt to act nonchalant.

“It could be a useful skill for a spy,” Evie suggested. “Or perhaps there might be someone he wants to dance with at the Val Royeaux wedding?” She arched an eyebrow, her eyes glittering merrily.

“He does like to boast about his gift for getting Orlesian ladies out of their gowns.” Dorian flinched at the bitter tone in his voice.

It surprised Evie too; her eyes widened and she looked just a bit chastened. “Oh. Ah. It was only an idle thought.” She placed a fingertip on the list and began running it over each word with fierce concentration.

Dorian felt unbearably irritable. “ _Vishante kaffas._ I’m not some pompous noble you’re supposed to question for the Inquisition, _Crofter._ If you have something to ask me, out with it,” he snapped.

Evie didn’t lift her gaze from the list. “Do you _want_ to talk about it?” she asked mildly.

It was just how Bull would have handled his fit of temper, which made things about a thousand times worse. Dorian gritted his teeth and bit back another sharp retort—then felt his anger desert him in a rush, leaving behind embarrassment and confusion and something else he couldn’t quite name. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He rested his left elbow on the desk and dropped his forehead into his hand.

The noblewoman did look at him then, her expression sympathetic but not cloying. “If not to me, maybe to Cecy?” she suggested.

Dorian sat up and sighed heavily. “I can’t. She knows us both too well. It feels wrong, somehow. And I’m not even sure what to say.”

_That I’ve made a botch of a perfectly enjoyable affair? That I lost my mind and asked Bull where “this” was going when I don’t even know what “this” is? That I let myself fall in love with …_

That last thought stopped Dorian’s breath for a beat or two.

_Fasta vas. That’s what happened, isn’t it? That’s why I asked that damned question. I’ve gone and fallen in love with the man._

Dorian felt deeply stupid for only realizing this now—and then, bizarrely, annoyed with The Iron Bull. The spymaster was always boasting about how he could read people, how good he was at knowing what people wanted even before they knew themselves. If anyone should have spotted this it was _him,_ damn it.

Maker, did Bull already _know_? Why hadn’t he said anything about it? Was it because he knew he didn’t feel the same?

After a very long pause, Evie cleared her throat tentatively. “Dorian?”

Dorian forced out a chuckle. “I … am suddenly regretting the fact that it’s too early to drink.”

Evie looked torn, and for a moment Dorian thought she would insist on being told what he was thinking about, but instead she put a sisterly hand on his arm. “Tell you what. I’ll steal you one of the good bottles of wine after the dance lessons.”

“Evelyn Trevelyan, I believe that’s the nicest offer I’ve heard all day.”


	8. The Ceremony

**Skyhold, two weeks before Satinalia**

There was a plot afoot in Skyhold.

The Iron Bull first began to suspect something odd was going on when he realized that Sera had pulled only a bare handful of pranks in the past month. He assumed the elf was simply putting her efforts into a particularly large and disruptive scheme, but eventually the prank drought went long enough to make him curious. It seemed like a good idea to find out exactly what she was planning.

That led to a surprise. Sera was coming and going at odd hours from a guest room Josephine had claimed for visiting dignitaries—and so were Evie and Dorian. It didn’t take Bull long to deduce that the three of them were planning something for Satinalia.

 _So that’s why Dorian’s been avoiding me_ , Bull thought as he scanned the report from one of his servant-informants, his muscular frame bent over Skyhold’s largest desk in the raven tower where he ran the Inquisition’s spy network. He felt a wash of relief—Dorian’s sudden unavailability had nothing to do with him after all.

Then Bull shook his head. _Don't bullshit yourself._ He knew why Dorian was so hard to find these days and it wasn’t because of whatever he and Evie were scheming about. It was because of that question, the one Bull still couldn’t answer.

_Where do you see this going?_

Bull prided himself on being able to give people the right answer, the one they wanted to hear. He watched and listened and figured out the response that would best turn a situation to his advantage. He’d learned his Ben-Hassrath lessons well. _Give a target what they want_.

But Dorian wasn’t a target. He was Bull’s … something. An ally? A bedmate? A friend? None of those words seemed right. None of them explained exactly what Dorian was to Bull. And did the right word even matter? He knew what he was supposed to do. _When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need_.

The problem was that Bull had no idea what Dorian needed. In a lot of ways the mercurial altus still baffled Bull—which he had to admit was part of Dorian’s appeal. He enjoyed untangling the puzzles of Dorian’s likes and dislikes, his changes in mood. Well, he _had_ enjoyed it up until now.

What if Bull couldn’t give him what he needed?

At that thought, Bull pushed back from his desk and began pacing around the top of the tower. The messenger ravens ruffled their feathers at him from their perches, communicating their annoyance at being disturbed. He ignored them. He’d never managed to develop Leliana’s touch with the birds. If they wanted to be pissed about his existence he wasn’t going to argue with them.

What if Dorian needed something like what Cecily was giving Cullen—a promise of a future, a public declaration that he and Dorian would grow old and grey together? The Qun didn’t really do monogamy; this was by far the longest Bull had been with the same person. Bull didn’t know if he could promise an unending future and be sincere, really believe it the way the boss seemed to. And lying probably wasn’t the way to go here.

He turned the problem around and around in his mind and came no closer to a solution. He did, however, finally realize something rather obvious—something that probably would have occurred to him sooner if he hadn’t been trained to trick answers out of people.

If he wanted to know what Dorian needed, he was going to have to ask Dorian.

 

* * *

 

“This book is the most unbelievably tedious thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Evie groaned, scowling at the elegantly bound volume in her lap.

Dorian looked up from the latest draft of the wedding menu and arched an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me that the _Ferelden Guide to Proper Engagement Etiquette_ _and Formal Wedding Protocol_ by Arlessa Violet Mountfort isn’t a scintillating read?” he teased.

“‘The groom should be congratulated on having his proposal of marriage accepted. However, one never offers congratulations to the bride, only best wishes.’ That makes no bloody sense!” Evie rolled her eyes. “I can’t imagine that Cullen’s family will care about any of this. I suppose I’ll have to wait until Mia answers our letter to get any useful information on Ferelden wedding traditions.”

Dorian heroically refrained from reminding Evie that he had predicted exactly this on the day she pulled the Arlessa’s ridiculous guide out of a dusty pile in the library. “That sounds like a fine plan,” he said instead.

“And yes, I know you told me to just wait instead of reading this book,” Evie replied with a little smile. “You were right.”

“You say that as if I might not already know,” Dorian sniffed archly.

Whatever reply Evie was planning was cut off by the sound of the door.

At the start of their scheme, Dorian and Evie would have hidden their books and papers and pretended they were playing a game of chess. But they had long since abandoned such caution. No one except Sera and occasionally Josephine ever came to this small room.

Today, however, was an exception.

The Iron Bull’s massive frame filled the doorway.

“So. This is your headquarters. Nice. I like how you picked all the furniture no one was going to miss,” he said, closing the door behind him and leaning back against it. He looked casual, relaxed, but Dorian couldn’t help but notice that he’d blocked any chance of escape.

“Hi, Bull!” Evie said brightly, closing her book and turning it on her lap so that its title no longer faced him. Dorian had to admire the effort, although he thought it was rather hopeless given that they had pinned the guest list to the east wall and the desk was covered in sketches of the chapel.

Bull’s good eye glinted in amusement. “Yeah, the _Ferelden Guide to Wedding Shit._ One of my favorites too. So the big Satinalia secret is a wedding. You realize, I hope, that at some point you’re gonna need the boss’s permission for all this? And the Commander’s?”

“It's safest as a surprise. You know how the two of them are,” Dorian protested. “Duty first until there’s hardly anything left over for themselves. How do you think they ended up with all those fancy clothes and formal dances and Orlesians in Val Royeaux?”

“I think it had something to do with people who love them making plans without asking them what they really wanted,” Bull said, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

Dorian opened his mouth, then closed it again. _Damn him, he’s right._ He looked over at his co-conspirator to see if she’d been similarly taken aback. A faint pink flush was warming Evie’s cheeks. Her eyes met Dorian’s in shared ruefulness.

“I … see what you mean. I’ll talk to them tonight,” she promised, not entirely concealing her dismay at the idea of all their planning being for naught. Then she brightened a bit. “If they don’t want the wedding ceremony we can still have a wonderful Satinalia celebration.”

Bull smiled. “All right, then. Nice to see you, Evie.” Slowly, deliberately, he took one large step to his right, leaving the path to the doorway clear once more. “Mind if I have a word alone with Dorian?”

Evie leapt up so fast that her chair actually wobbled. “Not at all. I was just leaving anyway.”

Dorian’s stomach fell down to his knees as Bull’s eye turned to meet his. He could feel magic gathering at his fingertips and he forced himself to draw it back. _Ridiculous_ , he scolded himself. He wasn’t in _danger_.

Then why was his heart beating so quickly as the door closed behind Evie?

 

* * *

 

They watched each other for a long moment, both of them evaluating the situation. Bull shifted slightly on his feet; Dorian wrapped one hand around the arm of his chair and used the other to smooth away an imaginary flaw in his mustache.

Finally Dorian couldn’t stand the silence. “So? What was the word? The one you wanted to have with me? Was it ‘rutabaga?’ I’ve always liked that one.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled, trying to conceal the slight catch in his breath. The small room suddenly felt more than a little stuffy.

Bull gave him a flat _ha-ha-you’re-very-funny_ look before crossing the room and sitting in Evie’s abandoned chair; it creaked ominously under his weight. He leaned forward on his elbows and fixed his gaze on Dorian. “Yeah. So. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Dorian crossed his arms defiantly. “Have I? That must have been someone else last night, then. How embarrassing, I didn’t think I was _that_ drunk.” 

“Oh, sure. You come around for the sex, but we never _talk_ anymore,” Bull chuckled. The laugh seemed forced; his massive chest rose and fell in a silent sigh. “Not since you asked me that question that I still don’t know how to answer.”

His good eye stared right at Dorian, daring him to pretend he didn’t know what Bull meant. Dorian’s instinct was to be obtuse, but he found he didn’t really have it in him today. Instead, he raised his chin and took a deep breath, trying to force his scattered thoughts into some kind of order. His mouth was suddenly dry as a desert and he swallowed uncomfortably.

Finally, he blurted, “Look. Where I come from this—relationships between men—they’re just physical. You have your fun and move along. And we’ve had a lot of fun, don’t get me wrong.” His fingers tightened on his arms and he felt a sweat break out on the back of his neck. “But I—I’m not sure that’s all I want anymore. That isn’t all I feel for you. And if that _is_ all you want, it might be best if we—if we stop. Before it’s even harder to, to …”

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, but his eyes never wavered from Bull’s. He’d expected to feel embarrassed after that little speech but instead he felt something more like relief. _Well. That’s that, then._ One way or another, at least he’d know.

Dorian watched his lover closely, waiting for his response. Bull was good at concealing what he was thinking, but you couldn’t spend that much time naked with someone without learning to read at least a bit of their body language. The former mercenary’s shoulders grew tense; he rubbed the bridge of his nose underneath his eye patch and grimaced.

“Sex in the Qun isn’t about relationships either,” he said gruffly. “All this—” he gestured at the wedding papers and plans that littered the room—“It’s not something that really makes sense to me, all that planning ahead and promising forever when you don’t know what the fuck tomorrow’s gonna throw at you.”

“So you never think about the future, then? It’s always about what’s in front of you right now?” Dorian’s voice was tight with restrained sarcasm—and with something a bit closer to pain.  _Was I just convenient, then?_

“I didn’t say that,” Bull protested. “Just that any plans I made were always about my duty. My duty to the Qun, at first. Then to the Chargers. Then it got shared with the Inquisition. And now …” He stopped and groaned slightly, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say.

“Look. When I think about what life might look like five years from now, or ten years, I kind of picture you there, all right? I want you around, and not just because of the sex. Although the sex is definitely part of it,” he finished with something like his usual arrogance.

Dorian thought about saying something cutting, about asking what exactly he was supposed to do with something that vague. But his gaze fell to Bull’s hands. They were twisted around each other, the first visible sign of nerves he’d ever seen from the Qunari. Bull’s face would have looked as unemotional as stone to almost anyone else. Dorian saw the slight tension in his mouth, the intensity in his remaining eye. He’d only seen that look on Bull’s face once before, that awful day at the Storm Coast—the last time he’d feared losing someone he cared about.

Slowly, Dorian raised his eyebrow. “So you ‘kind of picture me there?’ How dazzlingly romantic,” he replied, standing from his chair.

“Dazzling romance? That’s what you wanted?” Bull asked, leaning back as Dorian approached him.

“Well. I suppose not, since apparently what I want is _you_ ,” Dorian chuckled. He reached out a hand and placed it on Bull’s chest, feeling the tension in his muscles relax as Bull saw Dorian’s smile. “I have no idea how that happened, by the way. You’ve certainly done nothing to deserve it.”

Bull chuckled—sincerely this time—and reached his massive hand out to curl around Dorian's shoulder. "Earlier I was trying to figure out the right word for what you are to me." He shifted his hand higher, stroked his fingers down the nape of Dorian's neck. "The only one I came up with is a Qunari word. 'Kadan.' It means ..."

"I know what it means," Dorian interrupted quietly. He didn't bother to hide how much hearing that word pleased him.

Bull’s familiar, cocky grin spread across his face. “So you’re sure you don’t want dazzling romance, kadan? Because I could work on that, if you did,” he murmured. “Learn a few poems, bring you some flowers, maybe sing outside your window …”

“Maker help me,” Dorian sighed as he leaned in to kiss the man he loved.


	9. The Reception

As a small girl, Evie had been prone to playing with her forks at the dinner table. Her parents had long since lectured her out of that habit, but she still had to fight the urge to toy with her wine goblet as she and Dorian waited for Cullen and Cecily in the Inquisitor’s office that night. She had asked her sister if she might have a word with the couple before dinner; after vowing not to drink until the pair arrived, she and Dorian held out a full four minutes before opening one of the wineskins Cecily kept for softening up guests.

“It’s a Southern wine, it doesn't count,” Dorian assured Evie, taking a sip and making a surprised face. “Not terrible. Or perhaps my palate has lowered its standards.”

“Distract me. What did you and Bull talk about?”

“Mmm, this and that,” the altus said with a little shrug. “We settled some things and I think all parties were satisfied.” He took another drink. “Oh. Give me a day or two to replace the furniture in our secret room. Some of it, ah, broke.”

 _That_ certainly provided a distracting mental image.

Finally, the door creaked open. “I’m sorry, Evie. The Council meeting went even longer than we expected, and …” Cecily trailed off as she got a good look at Dorian and Evie’s expressions. “Oh no. What’s happened?”

“Well, it’s more like what we’ve been doing,” Dorian admitted as Cecily and Cullen stepped into the room. Unconsciously, he and Evie both stood, wanting to face whatever came on their feet.

Cullen and Cecily stood shoulder to shoulder, watching them with concern. Dorian coughed slightly and continued. “We, ah. We have something to confess. We’ve been planning your wedding. Another wedding, I should say, here in Skyhold over Satinalia.”

“We invited our family, and Cullen’s, and all of the Inquisition people we could find—Varric and Cassandra and Leliana too, she said she’d lead the ceremony.” Evie plucked at her sleeve, her eyes not quite meeting Cecily’s. “We wanted it to be a surprise but I think we should have asked first. If this isn’t something you want we’ll just have a lovely Satinalia together and—”

That was as far as she got before Cullen stepped forward and seized her in an enthusiastic embrace. “I can’t believe you did this!” he laughed, stepping back and gripping her shoulders. “Thank you! Maker’s breath. It’s like having a prison sentence lifted.”

“Oh, we haven’t gotten you out of the Val Royeaux wedding,” Dorian warned him. “That’s still there. This is just something extra.”

“Something that will mean the world to my family,” Cullen corrected, turning his head to beam at the mage.

“And somehow the grand formal celebration doesn’t seem so bad if we also have one with just our family and friends.” Her smile bright, Cecily moved forward to embrace Dorian. “You probably _should_ have asked first,” she admitted as he returned the hug. “But I’m glad you didn’t. We might have said no.”

“Yes, we suspected you couldn’t be trusted,” Dorian agreed wryly, sharing a grin with his co-conspirator.

 

* * *

 

**Skyhold, Satinalia**

Cecily and Cullen would always consider that intimate celebration at Skyhold to be their true wedding. Cullen’s entire family was there, down to the smallest nephew, a chubby little infant only a few months old. Cecily’s family came too, and while her mother was more than a little annoyed at Evie’s apparent disregard for the Val Royeaux wedding, the Trevelyans could not conceal their pride at seeing their beloved oldest daughter surrounded by so many people who admired her.

Friends, too, traveled from near and far for the small celebration. Leliana presided over the ceremony, her obvious joy quickly setting aside any worry that she would be offended by the change in plans. Varric came from Kirkwall, brimming with new stories of the Guard-Captain and Fenris and Hawke. Cassandra returned from her latest recruiting efforts and had several useful suggestions on poems that might be read during the ceremony. Even Warden Thom Rainier made the trip from Amaranthine to wish the couple well.

Cullen proudly wore the Inquisition’s formal uniform, the symbol of everything they had worked together to build. Cecily quietly agonized over what she would wear until her fiancé made an off-handed comment about how lovely she’d looked the night of the Halamshiral ball, all those long months ago when it never would have occurred to Cecily that he was looking at her at all. The blue-and-cream gown came out of storage immediately. Evie twisted her hair into artful curls that tumbled down her back, and when Cullen met her eyes in the chapel she had never felt more beautiful or more loved.

The dinner and celebration that followed lasted well into the small hours of the morning. The Inquisition’s great hall was packed tight with everyone from the inner circle to the servants and workmen, and after several hours of dancing the room grew so warm that they were obligated to throw open the windows to let in some of the cold air. A flurry of snowflakes had promptly invaded the celebration. They laughed and danced on.

Bull and Dorian had clearly made up, and apparently Cullen hadn’t been the only one taking dance lessons; the two of them launched into an allemande with such enthusiasm that others had to dash out of the way. Their steps were excellent but they were dancing a bit closer than was usually considered proper.

“I think I see why half the furniture in our secret room suddenly splintered and fell apart,” Evie murmured quietly as she watched them.

As the night went on Cecily spun from partner to partner, dancing with Evie and Dorian and Cassandra and Varric and Bull and half the Chargers until finally, she returned to Cullen’s arms, drenched in sweat and so tired all she could do was laugh with joy. Cullen, his formal armor long since abandoned, held her tight and laughed as well.

 

* * *

 

**Val Royeaux, Wintersend**

Maybe it was those memories of the Skyhold celebration, but the Val Royeaux wedding wasn’t nearly as bad as they had feared. Oh, Cecily’s dress was so heavy she couldn’t imagine dancing in it at first, at least four noblemen said something unintentionally insulting to Cullen before they had finished their first day in Orlais, and it was surprisingly terrifying to stand in front of two thousand elegantly attired noblemen as the embodiment of Thedas’s future. And it didn’t help that Vivienne was sitting in the middle of the third row, watching the proceedings the way a general might evaluate a crucial battle in progress.

But Leliana began their ceremony with a conspiratorial wink, which helped with many of their nerves. After their vows were said for the second time and they had escaped the cathedral, Vivienne removed Cecily’s embroidered train and suddenly she could move again. Their first allemande went beautifully, and Cullen mouthed a very clear “thank you” to Evie when they were finished.

And then, unexpectedly, the party became fun.

Cecily had insisted that the Champion of Kirkwall be invited, and had prevailed over Vivienne’s polite yet strenuous objections. Hawke promptly scandalized much of Orlais by bringing Fenris—a Tevinter elf!—to the Inquisitor’s wedding. (Not all of the stares were uncomplimentary; Cecily spotted several members of the Empress’s retinue casting admiring glances at the silver-haired warrior.) Despite her own elven heritage, the Hero of Ferelden had been a less contentious addition to the guest list. She seemed to have a wonderful time, as did her lover Zevran; the two of them barely left the dance floor all night. Even the King of Ferelden, who appeared approximately as comfortable with Orlesian balls as Cullen, grinned with good humor when his old comrade-in-arms forced him to dance a reel with her.

The Inquisition’s people, too, joined the celebration with enthusiasm. Vivienne positively radiated satisfaction at the elegance of the room and the way Thedas’s nobles fought for their turn to congratulate the couple. Meanwhile Josephine (with occasional assistance from Cecily, Cullen, and Leliana) took the opportunity to plant the seeds for diplomatic schemes she’d been dying to pursue for months. It seemed that people were much more amenable to sending ships and coin to refugees after a few glasses of champagne.

Sera had wrinkled her nose at the prospect of returning to Orlais, but seemed very pleased when a particularly snotty nobleman’s trousers suddenly ripped and fell around his ankles. Evie sent Lady Sophia into raptures when she danced with Prince Sebastian, although she later confided to Cecily that the Prince was “a bit of a bore.” Varric and Cassandra even danced once. Cecily thought she overheard some pointed questions about the latest installment of _Swords and Shields_.

When Cecily and Cullen slipped away from the ball to steal a moment on the balcony, they found that things were not as quiet as they had expected. A cacophony of laughter and merriment filled the soft spring air, and several competing strains of music rose from the streets; evidently Thedas’s elite were not the only people celebrating this night.

“I hope Leliana got her wish,” Cecily murmured, curling her arm through Cullen’s and leaning her head against his shoulder. “A happy thing for people to celebrate, a new start for Thedas. Not that one wedding solves everything,” she added quickly.

Cullen turned his head to kiss her hair. “No. But it can’t hurt, knowing that a mage and a Templar said their vows in front of the Divine herself.”

“Twice,” the Inquisitor joked.

The Commander laughed. “Once for us and once for Thedas?”

“Something like that.”

“I’d say them a third time, you know. A fourth and a fifth, even,” Cullen said softly.

“I don’t think I’d ever get tired of hearing you promise to be my husband,” Cecily said, turning to face him. “Or of promising to be your wife.”

The Commander took her hands and beamed at her; then his expression suddenly shifted from pure joy to something much deeper, something almost raw. “Cecy, I—sometimes I think about that day when Cassandra asked me to join the Inquisition. All I wanted was to help set things right, to try and put the world back together again. I couldn’t ever have imagined this. Imagined _you_.” His voice was low and a bit unsteady.

Cecily squeezed his hands. “I couldn’t have imagined you, either. Ever since the rebellion began I’d gotten used to expecting the worst.” She smiled at him almost shyly. “It was nice to be surprised.”

“Yes, it was,” Cullen agreed warmly. “And somehow it doesn’t seem quite as bad to face the worst at your side.” His eyes crinkled. “Even an Orlesian ball is almost bearable.”

The Inquisitor laughed softly and slid her arms around the Commander’s waist, stepping closer to rest her cheek against his chest. “Flatterer,” she murmured.

She felt Cullen wrap his arm around her shoulder, felt the tension in his body ebb and melt as her body molded against his. Despite the noise and the ball gown and the thousands of people around, Cecily felt utterly at peace as she shut her eyes and held her husband close.


End file.
